So Long, Sweet Albert

Albert found the food scoop

Albert and Timora, his surviving wife

Bundled up in a towel

Bath time

In the end, it was not a predator that claimed the life of brave Albert. It was an unresolved encapsulated abscess. Our little rooster, he who fought off skunk, hawk, snake, dog, cat, other roosters and human alike to safeguard his mate, his food, his domain, succumbed to mortality in a sadder and more mundane fashion than I would have anticipated.

I would have thought he would go out of this world in a blaze of glory, all blood and feathers and fury. I expected him to die as he lived, all out of proportion to his size. But, it was not to be.

Over a month ago, Albert sustained an injury, probably a puncture wound of some sort, in his right thigh. It became infected. Eventually, we noticed him limping. Examination revealed a hard hot mass in his thigh, one that quickly rendered him unable to walk. I called around to find an avian veterinarian at 1830 at night. After a succession of 'no's', I got a yes, at, surprisingly, Banfield's at PetSmart. $120.00 later, I had an injected chicken, take home meds, and a probable diagnosis.

When avian pus gets old within a nondraining wound, it becomes hard and dry, or caseous. It is difficult for the bird to reabsorb this nonperfused junk. It lingers for weeks. Sometimes, the whole mass of stuff is removed surgically. If I were braver or more experienced, I might have tried this approach. If I were richer, I might have asked a vet to it. But, I am neither.

I gave the first round of antibiotics and pain medication, then a couple weeks later, another round. I used the massage, tissue mobilization and physical therapy techniques I have learned over the years. I gave injections, special diet, sunshine, heat, love... I took Albert to Reno for a family birthday party in order to continue his treatment uninterrupted. I kissed him a lot.

Last week, he had a really good couple of days. He got up and walked, quite upright, and began talking in sweet little coo's and clucks. He asked to go outside and then alternately laid in the sun and in the shade, picking at the dirt and under the leaves for goodies. I was so tickled by the progress, I cried and laughed at the same time. When I kissed his comb, he shook his head, to free his face from my dripping tears.

But, like so many other animals and people I have known, he changed when the temperature at night dropped. He became weak and immobile, sleeping a lot and less responsive to me. In a few short days, he was gone.

I have a belief that ill and compromised organisms know when a winter will be too much for their own limited reserves, and choose an earlier, easier death over a chilling wasting away. I have always applied this graceful leave-taking with October, the month of true entry into winter's inescapable pull. My father chose that month, many of my patients choose that month. In the later hunting seasons, later October and November, I often encounter the remains of older or injured animals.

I think I helped Albert feel content and loved during his last weeks. He ate well and he was safe. He was affectionate and occasionally mobile. I never felt that he would have been better off dead. I would not have let him live if I had felt he was suffering. I was beginning to worry on the last couple days. But in the end, I would not have to make the difficult choice. Albert made it on his own.

He lived on his own terms, wandering free and taking on all comers. And, he died on his own terms, choosing his time. Classy little guy start to finish.

Go with God, little general...